Remembrances
by SemiPrecious17
Summary: So I guess I'll have to go back, search through the memories and try to pin down when exactly it happened; the precise moment I fell in love with Sherlock Holmes." Slash, rated M, good times.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Remembrances (1/2)  
Author: Semiprecious17  
Rating: Pg-13 for this chapter; NC-17 for the next  
Pairing: Sherlock/John  
Spoilers: All of series one  
Warnings: Some cursing. Eventual explicit sex =) One line stolen unabashedly from Glee (I'm not sorry)  
Word Count: 3000+  
A/N: Whew! First thing I've written in ages! I've truly missed it. This has had no beta or brit-prick so I apologize in advance for any typos, inconsistencies, or glaringly obvious Americanisms, I tried my best to edit. The second part (with the sexin'!) will be up within a day or two after some final editing.

This is being REPOSTED. I repeat, REPOSTED

Summary:

"So I guess I'll have to go back, search through the memories and try to pin down when exactly it happened; the precise moment I fell in love with Sherlock fucking Holmes."

PROLOUGE

I have a damn good memory.

I suppose as a doctor it's kind of a given (people usually expect you to be able to remember the name of the ailment you're diagnosing them with after all). But even before I got into the medical field and honed the skill I was pretty snappy at remembering details.

There are small inconsequential things forever preserved in my mind. There are childhood memories, nightmares, first dates, birthday parties, and one night stands that I can recall with perfect clarity.

Important things; my first love, my favorite aunt's funereal, the day I graduated from university, the day I was deployed to Afghanistan, every time someone I knew, respected, liked, died in front me. They're all there, swirling eternally in my mind whether I want them or not.

I can remember the first time I lost a tooth (I was six and I thought all my teeth were going to fall out at the same time and I'd have to wear false ones like my granddad. It was terrifying), the first time I got a haircut (Harry still has the album with the picture of me red faced and crying in horror at the woman trying to shave my head), the first bee sting I'd ever gotten (I turned out to be allergic and had to go to the A&E). I can recall my first dance in secondary school (my suit was a horrible brown color, a hand-me-down from my father), and my first kiss (it was, strangely enough, behind a post office, and when I tried to use tongue she bit me and called me a pervert).

There are the things I wish I didn't remember; my parents dying (a car crash caused by a bit of black ice), my first real breakup (she cheated on me with some overly muscled git. She told me I wasn't what she was looking for in a man. I told her to fuck off. (It wasn't my finest hour)), when I first realized Harry had a drinking problem (Clara told me. I still feel like the most terrible brother in the world for not noticing sooner. Harry and I don't talk much anymore).

Then, of course, is the time I went and got myself shot in Afghanistan. Everything was in sharp relief and tinged red around the edges. But when I crumpled to the ground, the sky was endlessly blue and the sand beneath me felt soft as a down cushion. Blue and red and gray. Then blessed darkness.

So yes, looking back some would probably say my life is a series of disasters ranging from mildly traumatizing to seriously fucked up. And I have the privilege of remembering them all.

But there's _one thing_ I can't remember. It's a strange, singular thing and I _should_ be able to bring to mind the exact moment it happened, the exact moment the emotion sprang into being. But I _can't_, and that is, needless to say, ridiculously frustrating.

So I guess I'll have to go back, search through the memories and try to pin down when exactly it happened; the precise moment I fell in love with Sherlock fucking Holmes.

CHAPTER ONE

I know it wasn't "love at first sight" because, honestly, that's a load of bollocks (lust at first sight? Sure, definitely, without a doubt. I've experienced plenty of that in my time). And really, I was in no mood for love anyway. I'm man enough to admit to myself that I was depressed, a dash broken, and couldn't get an erection if Keira Knightley herself came to my bedsit and gave me a blowjob.

Mike obviously felt some affection for the man, judging by the quirk of lips and the indulgent tilt of his head. He was apparently used to the demands and no longer really bothered about them (something I got used to strangely fast as well if the amount of tea I've made for him is any indication).

But I mostly felt irritation, confusion, and slight violation the first time I met him. Sherlock was just a somewhat anemic looking, odd, irritatingly tall bloke. No more, no less. He seemed entitled and maybe even a tad childish, looking to dazzle with his deductions ("Afghanistan or Iraq?") before he'd even properly introduced himself. Then he proceeded to flounce out of the door with a wink and an address.

Definitely no spontaneous love connection there.

So moving on.

I suppose the next time the git really stuck in my memory was when we went to our first crime scene (well, _my _first crime scene anyway). You know the one, "A Study in Pink," my first blog and a successful one if I do say so myself (and Sherlock can go fuck himself, I'm not Shakespeare but I'm no James Patterson either!)

Sherlock was at his best, and obviously trying to impress the new guy. Rattling off fact after obscure fact and making the police look like uncomprehending dolts. Pair that with the swirling coat and air of complete disdain and who could blame me for my sense of veneration? He was scarily intelligent (Brilliant! Fantastic!) and he knew it.

There was something about him, some pull that made you sit up and take notice when he spoke. He was mesmerizing, magnetic. A performer in a base, fundamental way that I don't even think _he_was aware of. I was in awe of him. It was probably glaringly apparent to both Sherlock and Lestrade ("You know you do that out loud, right?"), but I had to give credit where credit was due, and it was certainly due in spades to Sherlock.

But then he went and abandoned me in an unknown part of town, with strangers and a psychosomatic limp. Only to be kidnapped by his _equally_dramatic, arsehole brother in a three piece suit that same night. So yes, git.

This couldn't be the moment. There was awe, a burgeoning sense of loyalty, but no love.

Not yet.

You probably think The Moment is when I shot that crazy cabbie (hmmm, maybe I should have called it _The Case of the Crazy Cabbie_...No? A bit too much alliteration?). But that, much like being shot in Afghanistan, was more a blur of vivid color and spikes of adrenaline than it was distinct emotion. It was me choosing the lesser of two evils. I couldn't let Sherlock swallow that pill and I couldn't allow the cab driver to continue killing innocent people, not if it was in my power to stop him. I'm no murder but I have an unfailingly straight moral compass. I know what's right and saving Sherlock may not have been lawful, ethical, or legal but it was _right._I've never regretted it.

And afterwards, there was a palpable feel of camaraderie, fuelled by _literally_ getting away with murder and by _amazing_Chinese food (and by God! Sherlock really could predict the fortune in the cookies). I felt closer to him, felt like maybe he was human, more than the man made of marble driven by the need to understand and deduce. I felt like maybe, just maybe, we might become friends.

A blooming friendship? Yes. Just a seed, but there all the same, growing, feeding on our mutual need for danger.

But love? Most definitely not.

Alright, so maybe I should just skip over the whole Sarah debacle? That would probably be kinder to all of us. But let me just say, Sherlock butting in my date was _not_on. Sarah and I might have gotten on famously!

We might have continued dating, become something more. Perhaps I wouldn't have to had to kip on the sofa, perhaps whatever was there wouldn't have petered out and ended in the dreaded 'Friend Zone'. Maybe I wouldn't be playing this damnable memory game, trying to figure out when I fell in love with a self proclaimed sociopath (and, most importantly, maybe I would be getting laid on a regular goddamn basis).

And yes, okay, I probably could have made more of an effort; more dates (or not running out on the few we had to chase down some criminal or other), little tokens of affection every now and again, less calling off work to nurse injuries from the night before.

But even then, before the whole falling in love occurred, when I should have been enjoying my time with a perfectly kind, intelligent women, I couldn't get Sherlock out of my head. He was nested there, strange and impenetrable and utterly maddening. Even when he treated me like a second class citizen, an acceptable fill in for his skull, I couldn't help but be simply _grateful_that he allowed me his time at all. That he didn't 'delete' me with the rest of the things he found boring or unnecessary.

I wanted him to consult me, to need me. I was beginning to be happy to do the grunt work if he would only flash me that quirky half-smile or look at me with something akin to affection in those sharp almond eyes. It made all the frustration of his personality bearable if he'd speak my name in that low fond, smooth as a baby's bottom, baritone (sorry, this alliteration thing is rather catchy).

This was when the obsession, the need to please began, this much I know at least. But obsession is not love.

And perhaps I shouldn't place all the blame on Sherlock, the lanky, lovely bastard, but then again maybe he shouldn't make it so easy to do so...

But that's neither here nor there.

While I might not know the moment I fell in love with Sherlock, I _do_in fact know the exact moment I fell in lust (is that a thing? Falling into lust? Does it just spring on you like a wild thing in unexpected moments?).

It was just after what I've come to refer to as 'The Pool Debacle' (future blog title: _The Curious Incident of the Pool in the Night Time_...I'm still working on it...) and we were in hospital. Well, Sherlock was, at least. He had sustained a shallow gun shot wound to his right side, luckily missing any major organs, and a nasty laceration to the back of his head. I'd gotten out with less serious injuries, a twisted ankle and a couple of bruised ribs. I'd been discharged the next morning but Sherlock had to stay for a few days at least, I knew he'd be furious when he awoke.

I'd snuck to his room the night after I was let go, wanting to see if he was doing alright. I expected to see him awake, hands pressed together under his chin, already plotting how best to get at Moriarty (and then I could yell at him for going to that pool to meet the arsehole (who was even more mad than he was) a_bloody_lone). But when I stood, wobbly on my new crutches and trying hard not to think of my cane, staring down at closed eyes and a relaxed brow, I realized that I'd never actually seen Sherlock sleeping before (eyes clamped shut in a huff or pretending to be asleep so that I wouldn't ask him to help put away the grocery, sure). It was strange and a little discomfiting to see him looking so utterly vulnerable.

His skin was completely alabaster, almost translucent with blood loss and exhaustion, the harsh light coming in through the windows making the angles of his cheekbones flare up even higher, looking sharp enough to cut. The dark splash of his lashes was delicate and threw off strange spiky shadows, dipping into the faint lines etched around his eyes.

It was startling how absolutely red his lips were, almost obscene against the backdrop of palest white. They were full as always but slightly chapped now. I had the sudden urge to lean over and swipe my tongue over them until they were smooth and glistening with my saliva. I wanted to know what they tasted like, if they were as sweet as they looked or if they were firmer than I thought they'd be. I bet they'd be soft though, plush between my teeth. I'd nip at them until they were a swollen, blood red slash across his long boned face.

I entertained the thoughts without even really realizing I was having them. But once I did, I'm sure my face was comically shocked. Since when did I have _those_ sort thoughts about my prat of a flatmate? Sherlock and I were just friends (_despite_what half of Scotland Yard, Mrs. Hudson, and my sister might believe) and I was certainly crossing a line thinking of him in that way.

I stared down at him for long moments, willing the pit of my stomach to stop the slow simmer it'd begun and telling myself that it was most likely just a late reaction to a near fatal experience (I was never very good at lying to myself). Trying not to stare too hard at that vibrant mouth or imagine my hands tugging at those Cimmerian curls. I should be more concerned with his state of health, I should not be imagining what it'd be like to climb into that narrow bed and taste him, to have him taste me.

When I left his bedside I hobbled a fourth of the way home before giving into the fact that, one: I definitely had an inappropriate attraction to my most likely asexual flatmate, and two: I really should call a cab and get off my now ridiculously inflamed ankle.

Once home I lay in bed for a long while, trying to shove this new facet of emotion into the, admittedly overflowing, box in my mind labeled **SHERLOCK** in big, bold, capital letters. It fit in surprisingly well with the _anger, affection, irritation, acceptance, friendship, obsession_that was already there.

I fell asleep to the simmer creeping lower, between my pelvis. It was a pleasant burn.

Then there are the moments with Sherlock that maybe aren't so big or haven't seemed as pivotal to our relationship (or maybe just my _imagined _relationship with him?). But who's to say these are any less important? Perhaps it was during one of those small seemingly inconsequential blips in a long day that I fell so hard for him.

Maybe it was that time that the rain turned icy and slicked the front steps into something treacherous for an old women with a trick hip? Sherlock was out before I was, taking the heavy bag of salt from the small cellar and scattering it over the frozen pavement. Mrs. Hudson had kissed him on the cheek and pressed a a cup of tea in his hand. Sherlock had smiled when she called him, "a lovely boy."

It could have been when Lestrade needed someone to watch his little girl, Alice, and Sherlock had groaned and complained but offered our home all the same. She spent the whole four hours bunching up her plump hands in Sherlock's curls and getting under foot when he was busy. I thought Sherlock would get bored or irritated and snap at the girl but he had born it all with a good natured grumpiness that still makes me feel a fierce rush of affection to this day.

Or perchance it was when we were called to a particularly gruesome crime scene. The victims thirteen year old son had dissolved into tears at the news of his mother's death and wrapped gangly limbs around _Sherlock_of all people in a bid for comfort. The whole force had gone quiet, staring, expecting Sherlock to snap something cold and hurtful and shove the boy away. There was a collective dropping of jaws when he'd held the boy close instead and rubbed slow circles between his protuberant shoulder blades, whispering something low and soothing.

I'm man enough to admit that my own eyes got a bit misty. But only until Sherlock realised that everyone was watching and proceeded to send a death glare over the grieving boy's head until people scurried back to work. He stroked the boy's back until his relatives got there. I was so proud of him.

There are a thousand moments with Sherlock, a million, an infinite amount. I can't go through them all, and even if I did I'm still not sure I'd come up with the answer to my question. So maybe for once my memory has failed me.

Or maybe there was no one moment.

No fireworks that announced it or a singular instant that defined it.

I hear it happens that way sometimes; one day you just wake up and there's this knowledge that you've always had but that you're just now realising or understanding. A slow build up that gradually fills you, not something that overwhelms you. Something that makes you perk up and say, "Oh, there you are. I've been looking for you forever."

And, I know, it's ridiculous and sappy and I should be stoned for entertaining the thoughts of a pre-teen girl. But I can't _help_ it (and believe me, I've tried). Sherlock makes me feel alive and unbroken and like I'm fully and wholly _me_again. He gives me something to blog about, someone to take care of, someone to complain about, and someone to rely on.

Thoughts of him keep me up a night. And I won't always say they're all pure thoughts of romance and courtship; some of them leave me hard and aching in the soft cotton of my pajamas bottoms, the only relief the tight channel of my fist.

He's outspoken and arrogant and harsh and absolutely _not _a sociopath (no matter what he says to Anderson). But there's something about him that makes me want to push the curls back from his brow and tell him, "I _see_you, Sherlock. You don't have to pretend. You've already got me."

I've never met a man like him and I expect I shall never again meet his equal.

And now, because I've never been a man to let things go unspoken (Sherlock and I have _that_in common at least), I'm going to go tell him exactly how I feel. Hopefully it will end in a marathon snogging session and not with a laugh in my face and a boot in my arse.

So if you've stuck with me this far, wish me luck. I'm going to need it.


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Remembrances  
Author: Semiprecious17  
Rating: NC-17  
Genre: Romance/Humor  
Pairing: Sherlock/John  
Spoilers: All of series one  
Warnings: fingering, explicit sexual content (sexin'!), cursing  
Word Count: 4,000+ (that's a lot for me)

A/N: So here's the second part! It was supposed to be up yesterday but I just kept nitpicking at it until I forced myself to stop. It turned out a bit funnier than I expected (or I hope it did lol). I hope you all enjoy!

Summary: So I guess I'll have to go back, search through the memories and try to pin down when exactly it happened; the precise moment I fell in love with Sherlock fucking Holmes.

I wasn't taking the situation lightly. I was completely and utterly aware of how absolutely horrendous our relationship could potentially become if I didn't go about handling this in the correct way.

So over the course of three hours, seventeen minutes, and forty-four seconds (how long it took Sherlock to return from whatever most likely ridiculous errands he had been running), I set down exactly what I would say to him.

My speech would, of course, begin with tea. I'd bring it to him without him even asking and not even berate him for the three teaspoons of sugar he preferred. I'd sit him down on the couch and move in close (but not too close; I wouldn't want to scare him off too early) and smile the smile I perfected in my time at medical school; the gentle, understanding, "I'm a doctor, you can trust me" smile (you know, the one your physician gives you right before he jabs you with an obscenely large needle). Once he was at ease I'd lay it on him.

I imagined it would go a little something like this:

"Sherlock, there's something I want to say to you and I just want you to listen, alright? Alright, good. We've been friends for awhile now, over a year if I've not mistaken. Oh, a year, three months, and nineteen days? That's good to know Sherlock, but please, just let me speak for now, yes? Okay. We've been friends for awhile, and over that time my feelings for you have grown into something a bit deeper than friendship. I care about you a great deal and I think it's safe to say that you're the most important person in my life. What I'm trying to tell you is that I love you. I mean I _love you_ love you. Yes, _I know_ I sound like a bad primary school love note but that's neither here nor there, Sherlock. I'm_ in _love with you, you great barmy, bollocking, blighter!"

Sherlock would then obviously realize just how important my confession was and realize that he too had strong feelings of _amore_and fall into my arms in a heady rush of love!

….Then we'd shag like bunnies and live out the rest of our long happy lives solving crimes, shagging some more, harassing Lestrade, having a shag, conducting ludicrous experiments, and oh, did I mention shagging?

But, of course, it didn't _quite_work out that way.

The plan was going perfectly at first.

I had changed into the soft, dark blue jumper Sherlock had once complimented me on (well he complemented it in a Sherlockian, roundabout way...he said it wasn't _completely_terrible...) and had the water boiling and ready in the kettle on the stove. Sherlock's favorite "My name is Bond-Covalent Bond" mug out and on the table. The speech was prepared and raring to go. And so was I.

Sherlock came whirling in that way he'd apparently mastered (at some school catering specifically to the habitually dramatic perhaps), so that you knew he was there the moment he stepped in the door, taking up more space than was justifiable. He looked dashing and put together like always in tailored jacket and well fitting trousers. His dove grey shirt framed those collar bones to the utmost perfection. He was beautiful.

I managed to catch him before he could disappear into the dark, still somewhat mysterious cavern of his room. He sat next to me and took the tea willingly enough. I took a deep breath, trying not back out now, steeling myself to potentially ruin a perfectly (dys)functional friendship.

But what I hadn't counted on was how _nervous_I'd be (I'd invaded Afghanistan for fucks sake!).

And also on the fact that this was Sherlock _fucking_Holmes.

So instead of following my perfectly thought out plan, the conversation went a bit like this:

"Sherlock, there's something I want to say to you and-"

"Oh, dear lord! You're in love with me, aren't you?"

Of course I could only gape in shock. I mean, what was I to do? I had planned how this would go and Sherlock, the arse, had ruined it in a second. Him and his damnable deductions!

I'm fully capable of thinking on my feet. I've been trained to do so and I'm (usually) good at it, snap decisions that end up being for the greater good in the end. But at this moment, I'm ashamed to say, I panicked. And instead of just collecting myself and giving a resounding _yes_, I reacted like a total moron.

"_What_? No! Sherlock that's- that's just-I don't even know where you would have _gotten_ an idea like that from!" I was spluttering like a moron and could practically _feel_my face going beet red.

Sherlock just stared at me with his stupid sharp eyes, and his stupid eyebrow ticking upward, and holding his stupid mug with its stupid pun, and dear Lord in heaven I was _still_rambling like an idiot on Ritalin!

"I mean, honestly, how ridiculous! You and me? Together? Ha! You're a comedian on top of all your other talents! Who would have thought it?" I'd hopped up from the couch by this point, gesticulating like a wild thing, and watching, as if in an out of body experience, as my chances of being with Sherlock disappear into a smaller and smaller probability.

I wanted to smack myself across my beet colored face and try to gain back some of the conviction (or for God's sake, some of the _dignity_) I gone into this endeavor with. I knew what I wanted, I had no doubt that Sherlock and I would be great together. We already were, after all. But I couldn't seem to make my mouth close, or at least say something that wasn't a complete lie.

So I rambled for another excruciatingly long four minutes, detailing why _exactly_it was the craziest idea I'd ever heard, wondering what our friends (well I say friends) would think, scoffing over what Mycroft would have to say about it, laughing about how absolutely ludicrous the very notion was.

But then I looked up at Sherlock and froze, finally able to shut my goddamn gob at the sight of his expression. His face was tight and drawn and he was no longer looking at me at all. Those whippet thin shoulders were hunched and defensive, slender fingers gone tight around the now cold cup of tea. And I'd never felt like more of an arsehole.

Here I was tearing down the man I loved, giving him every reason why we shouldn't be together instead of the ones why we _should. _And along the way I was making him feel about as small as Anderson's intellect.

This was wrong, all wrong. I should be flogged for how I was behaving, like some bumbling idiot who'd never asked someone out before. I shouldn't be making Sherlock feel like he was being ridiculous when he was completely right.

Okay, alright. I could fix this. But I'd have to do it fast, before Sherlock shut down all together and I lost any chance I had of making this right.

"Yes, I'm in love with you, Sherlock. I have been for awhile now." I didn't look at him, just stared a point against the wall, too nervous to see the rejection in his eyes. "I'm not sure when it happened, or even how, 'cause you're a right prick sometimes, but I do. And it might completely ruin our friendship and you'll probably kick me out the moment I'm done making this ridiculous speech, but damn it, at least I'll have been man enough to tell you. I can live with myself as long as I've done that much."  
A knot the size of that damn skull was blocking my throat, but I swallowed thickly and kept right on going.

"You have these moods like some kind of Victorian heroine and they should irritate me to distraction, but instead they're ridiculously endearing! And you leave the flat a mess and expect me to clean it while you flounce about doing some potentially fatal experiment or other and I don't even mind!" I was on a roll now, pacing, the wild gestures were back!

"They're about nine different human body parts in the refrigerator right now and I'm afraid to even_ look_into your bedroom, but I'll be fucked if I wouldn't put up with a whole lot more just to have the opportunity to watch you work, to be around you in any way I can. Sherlock, I love you!" I whirled to look at him, breathing heavily, so afraid that my stomach was in a million different knots, nerves mixing with adrenaline in a heady, nauseating blur.

He was staring up at me, a bit slack jawed, eyes wide (and thankfully not still looking like one more word would shatter him), and I had a moment of pride that I, John Hamish Watson, had managed to surprise (and, dare I say, boggle?) _the_Sherlock Holmes. But then his jaw clamped shut and he looked back at his hands, he was silent for a long moment.

"You're not expecting me to love you back," he murmured, almost to himself.

My breath stopped. I...wasn't expecting that.

Was I? Was I really expecting him to? I had fantasies about if he said yes, little dreams of what it would be like. Sex and adventure and growing old together. Moving out to the country (Sherlock had a dozen books on bee keeping. Maybe we could get some if he promised to be careful). But did I really, truly believe he was going to say yes?

"No," a whisper just as low as his had been. "But I want you to."

Sherlock jerked his head up to look at me, eyes fierce in pale face. "I can, you know," he snapped. "Love you back."

I bit my lip hard.

"I could say yes. I-I'm not what I say I am." This was the closest he'd ever come to telling me he wasn't a sociopath. I didn't need any convincing on that front. I'd seen the way he could be; kind, thoughtful, compassionate. I moved back to the sofa, keeping a careful distance between us. I met my average blue eyes with his exceptional ones.

"I know, Sherlock. I know you _can_, but _do_you?" I wanted reach out, cup my hand over his jaw, but kept them firmly in my lap.

This was it. This is the moment that would decide whether this was a love story or a tragedy. The moment our friendship changed into something more or splintered into a billion shards that I'd feel piercing me when ever I thought of pale skin or a voice as seductive as sin.

I held my breath and hoped with every facet of my being.

"John, I've loved you since before I even knew I could," I stared at the growing smile on his face in disbelief. "You're without a doubt, the most impressive man I've ever had the pleasure of knowing, and all while being so unapologetically _ordinary_!" I couldn't even bring myself to scowl at this; I was too caught up in his words, words that _weren't_tearing me apart.

"Sometimes I forget how small you are because you take up every available atom of space in the room and I feel like I can't bloody _breathe_ with how much I want to reach out and touch you," my own grin was growing wider and I was practically quivering. "You remind me that humanity's not all bad, that not everyone is a _complete_moron. You keep my feet on the ground and my head out of the clouds. And if we're done with these frankly ridiculous professions of love, I'd really like you to kiss me now."

"Oh God, yes!"

I surged forward and met that ripe, smiling mouth with my own, grinning into the kiss, laughing, unbelieving, ecstatic. Every fiber of my body lit up with happiness at feeling Sherlock kiss me back with equal fervor.

That _mouth_ of his, how something that shot off the kind of sharp insults he was known for could be so pliant and plush, I would never know. But it _was_; full and soft and I gave in almost immediately to the desire I'd been holding back, biting down on the lower one, feeling Sherlock gasp and open for me. I pulled the rapidly swelling flesh into my mouth and sucked on it, groaning at the taste of tea and need.

I pressed closer and threaded my hands into those curls I'd wanted to touch for ages. It was smooth and thick and who could blame me for tugging at it, bunching up my fingers pulling his head back so I could get at that throat?

It was perfect, that throat (those freckles only added character). Long and curving gracefully, it too begged for my mouth. I gave it what it wanted; marked it with my lips and tongue, and when that wasn't enough, the sharp ridges of my teeth. I nipped at that expanse of skin until Sherlock was gasping and curling his fingers around the fabric of my jumper.

It was a heady cycle of give and take when I moved back to his lips, slick tongues indulging in one another in a delectable feed back loop that left us both hard, pressing closer together wanting more than the tease of lips and gripping fingers could provide.

His hand moved to rub the hard ridge of my cock through my trousers and I groaned and pulled away all together, stilling him when he moved to follow.

I didn't want a handjob on the sofa, or a blowjob, or even rutting together until we came with a sticky mess between us. I wanted to fuck him like I'd been imagining for what felt like forever. But I wasn't sure if he wanted to go that far just yet and I _definitely_didn't want to pressure him into something he didn't want to do just because I was being a horny bastard. I imagined that Sherlock was either nearly virginal or a ridiculously kinky fucker in the bed room (I was hoping for the latter), but I didn't want to assume either way.

"Oh, just ask, John," Sherlock sighed, interrupting my thoughts and setting my cheeks to flushing when I realized he knew _exactly_what I was thinking about. He didn't look embarrassed, though. Just a little amused and a lot impatient.

Okay, just ask. I could do that.

"Can we have sex?" I blurted, quick and a bit high pitched. Sherlock snorted and smirked at me.

"I don't know, _can_we?" And really, I was in no mood for a grammar lesson, not when my cock was the hardest it'd been since my Uni days, and I had the man of my past few months wet dreams sitting right next to me and looking absolutely delectable (and arrogant, always arrogant).

"Yes, Sherlock, we can. Now if you're not opposed to it, I suggest you get your lanky arse upstairs and into my bed." And when it looked like he might protest, "Because there's absolutely no way we're using your bio-hazard of a room to fuck in."

He stared at me for a long moment and then grinned blindingly and bounded off the couch and upstairs, tugging off clothes as he went so that I almost tripped on the abandoned items as I hurried (boy did I hurry) after him.

When I got there a few seconds behind him, he was just sliding off his trousers, stepping out of them and standing there in only his tented pants still grinning (I love that it was his real smile. Not that strange, fake grimace he gave most others. I'd earned it) at me from under the tousled mop of his dark hair.

I wondered if he knew how breathtaking he was.

"A bit eager there, are we?" I snarked, but I was grinning just as widely and letting my own trousers pool around my ankles, pulling off my jumper and undershirt. We stood and studied one another for a long minute. I took in the slender but strong musculature of his body, the scars I wanted to trace with my tongue, the deep scarlet of his pants against the pale expanse of lightly freckled skin.

I let him look at me too and I felt no shame under his gaze, only desire.

I walked to him and hooked my fingers into the elastic of his waistband, skimmed the fabric over his erection and down his angular hips until he was as naked as the day he was born. He eased my underwear off too (tit for tat was my Sherlock...not that I minded in this regard), elegant fingers teasing the skin of my hips with every barely there touch. We pressed together, mouths finding one another easily in a nearly chaste kiss.

I led him blindly to my bed, tumbled him down on the plain cream sheets and let the tension of our bare bodies build, amplify, grow into a heady mix of too soft lips and stillness, the strain of not moving becoming too much, morphing into a dirty thrust of tongues and the matching movement of hips.

I rolled my hips down, loving the gasp Sherlock muffled against my lips, rolled them harder, loved those low moans even more. Our skin was growing slick with sweat and I pulled back from the swollen mess of his mouth to lap the thin trickles from the hollow of his throat. I tugged his knee around my waist and rutted against him, too rough, too lost in the feel of Sherlock's body and the (dirty, beautiful, so sexy I could weep) noises he was making to care. The drag of our cocks sliding together was too much and not enough (_God_, not enough, never enough with Sherlock) and I remembered the purpose of coming up here was for fucking, _not_frotting.

And the thought of being inside Sherlock was enough to make my cock throb and my breathing go reedy.

I wanted to take him apart. I wanted to expose every ambrosial inch of him.

Over those past (torturous) months I'd had this recurring fantasy that had me on edge in seconds every time I so much as thought of it. In it I would slick up my fingers and slide them into Sherlock's tight, hot opening one at a time, slowly, so slowly that is was exquisite torture for both of us. I'd open him up, thrust in over and over and _over_ until he couldn't take it, until he positively _begged_for my cock.

But he wouldn't get it, not quite yet.

I wanted him to come only from the stretch of my fingers, that beautiful, leaking cock untouched. Only once he had come and was pliant and loose for me would I sink into where I wanted to be so badly, indulge in the yielding heat of him until I was satisfied.

I jerked back from him, tearing open the bedside table, the fantasy so vivid in my mind that I was worried I would come from the thoughts alone. The condom (belonging to a woefully full strip of them, I might add) was rolled on quickly and the lube splashed liberally onto my fingers. I hoisted Sherlock's leg over my right shoulder, grinning at the eager sound he made (so definitely not virginal. Fingers still crossed for kinky fucker!), sliding my hand down to just tease over his opening.

"Ready?" I murmured over the sound of our panting. He shifted his legs wider.

"_Yes_,' he hissed as I ghosted around the quivering muscle. I rubbed a soothing palm along the outside of his lightly furred thigh and pressed into him, both us groaning. I stroked inside the scalding heat as Sherlock's breath turned harsh and his hips shifted.

A second finger was added beside the first before he could find the words to ask for it, the stretch obvious now, the ring of muscle tight around my fingers. I slid them slowly in and out, watched fascinated as Sherlock's slender hands gripped at the bedding and his lips parted on moans of _my_name.

I scissored them, stretched him, slid in deep for long minutes filled with the sound of Sherlock moaning and gasping out low, dirty words of encouragement that made a flush rise up my chest and my cock jerk where it lay heavy between my thighs.

"More?" I asked already knowing the answer, his groan and the jerk of his hip confirmation enough. A third finger made its way inside Sherlock, a desperate sounding keen rising from that long throat.

He fucked down on my hand as best he could, nonsense spewing from his mouth, obscene and arousing and absolutely filthy. I turned my head and bit into the flesh of his thigh trying not to give in and just sink into the welcoming tightness. He'd ruined one of my carefully thought out plans tonight, he would _not_ be ruining this one...even if he was flushed and gorgeous and moaning words like _please_ and _fuck me_ and _so full. _

"_Look_at you," I whispered. His back was a shallow bow, head thrown back, cock red and dripping steadily against the flat expanse of his stomach. Large hands still clung to the bed sheets like a life line.

He was, without a doubt, the most beautiful person I'd ever seen. And he _shouldn't_be. His features should be too angular and harsh to be attractive, body too long and narrow to be sexy, eyes odd and discomfiting, lips full in a thin face, hair wild and dark against pale skin.

There was no reason he should be this mind bogglingly appealing...except that he was Sherlock _fucking _Holmes and he was a goddamn work of art.

"John!" he gasped, opening eyes gone dark with a ring of cerulean blue just visible at the edges. "_Please_. Just fuck me," he groaned out as I twisted my fingers inside of him. "I _need_-" He broke off on a yelp as I rubbed deliberately over his prostate. He'd been _so_good, and I couldn't take another minute of not being inside him.

Twice, thrice, four times I stroked firmly over that sensitive nub and he was _howling _as his cock throbbed and he came in thick spurts over his chest and stomach, voice breaking on a sob as I pulled my hand away immediately and slid my cock into his well stretched hole. It was perfection, sinking into the still throbbing center of him (if true paradise exists, it's surely inside Sherlock's arse), and with a few rough snaps of my hips I was filling the condom and biting down on the juncture of Sherlock's shoulder to muffle my shout.

I stayed buried in that smooth expanse of throat and tried to gather myself after the undoubtedly most amazing orgasm I'd ever had.

After a long few minutes I gripped the base of the condom and pulled out, tying it off and tossing it God only know where, quickly grabbing a discarded pair of underwear and swiping half heartedly at the mess on Sherlock's belly.

Then I plopped right back on top of Sherlock where I belonged.

He huffed out an irritated breath but I could feel the stretch of his smile where it rested against my temple. I pulled back so he could see my own blinding smile.

"You're perfect," I murmured, resting on an elbow so I could smooth back a wayward curl.

"Of course I am," he said matter-of-factly and I groaned and rolled to the side so I could bury my face in his neck again. He was going to be impossible after this.

"You're also an arse."

"Yes, well, you're obviously fond of those." I felt his chest rumble with silent laughter and grinned against his shoulder.

"Prick," I mumbled, happier than I'd been in a long, long time. He muttered something about liking those, too. I grinned wider and let my eyes drift shut.

If you've kept with me to this point (through the teenaged level angst, the uncertainty, and the, as Sherlock put it, "frankly ridiculous professions of love") I have to thank you, you're a trooper if there ever was one. Let me just wrap up the story 'o John with this:

What's the big hoopla if I don't know the precise moment I fell in love. Love is love no matter when or how it happens.

And this love? This is the real thing.

How do I know that for certain? That one's easy.

Because it's with Sherlock _fucking _Holmes.

I hope you enjoyed! 3


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